


The Right Sounds

by elvntari



Series: Canonverse Tolkien [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Middle Earth History, Hook-Up, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mereth Aderthad, Music, Musical innuendos, One Night Stands, Shapeshifting, daemags, its kinda cringe actually, uh how to tag, whether to tag luthien or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 11:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18872539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: At the Mereth Aderthad Daeron connects with a mysterious onlooker that he's been curious about since arriving.





	The Right Sounds

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Strangeness And Charm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693783) by [elvntari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari). 



> *peace sign* kinda of a rewrite of strangeness and charm kind of not but im linking it anyway
> 
> i dont wanna seem like a weird straight girl who only ever writes fic about them hooking up so please be assured i am very much a lesbian and entirely projecting bc i saw a hot girl last week and cant stop thinking about her thank u and peace out

Daeron had had a number of bad ideas in his time. 

He’d run away to try and peer at the sky without the veil of the girdle getting in the way; played with dangerous animals to see if they could understand him when he spoke; picked fights with courtiers over poetic disagreements; and he’d certainly spent nights with people ‘far below his station’ and with whom it would be ‘devastating’ to his father to find he’d slept with (Lúthien had a way of picking her words.) 

But this, by far, was the worst case of foolery. 

Why he’d been drawn to him, he wasn’t entirely sure; only that it seemed unimaginably important that he made his presence known to the man standing at the corner of the dining hall, crystal flute of fizzing alcohol in his hand, eyes narrowed as he watched the other attendees spinning and dancing. 

His forefinger tapped the side of the class in tune to the music, keeping up the subtleties of the beats which the musicians missed. And they didn’t miss often, or obviously. 

From the first glance, he could tell that this man was very clever. Clever with a sharpness that most didn’t have--a sharpness that would cut, if he wasn’t careful. That sort of intelligence didn’t usually account for wisdom, or emotional nuance, but it certainly made for good conversations.

And so he approached nonetheless, weaving through the crowd, supernaturally able to avoid being jostled for space. 

“Enjoying the music?” He asked, as he leant against one of the wooden posts that held the newly-erected dining hall in place.

The man rolled his eyes--a shimmering, silvery-blue that appeared almost luminous in the dimly-lit corner. “Hardly,” he said. Daeron noticed the tiniest scar on the corner of his bottom lip, only apparent when he moved his mouth, likely from some common injury. He spoke with the kind of smooth, dulcet tones that could talk you into sticking your hand into a fireplace. “But I suppose they’re passable to most.”

“And what makes you so much better than them?” Daeron asked, taking a sip of his own drink, holding the man’s eye’s in his own gaze.

“I’m the greatest musician to ever live.” He said it as if it was a joke, but with the understanding that both of them knew it wasn’t.

“That’s odd.” Daeron smiled, he couldn’t resist. “I thought that the greatest musician to ever live was me.”

The other man stared at him for a moment, before nodding in approval and offering him a hand. Daeron’s eyes were drawn to the jangle of the black metal star hanging from his wrist around the same time that he introduced himself as, “Lord Maglor Fëanorion.”

_ Oh, what a shame.  _

Daeron took his hand. “Daeron.”

“No titles for the greatest musician in the world?” Maglor raised his eyebrows as he shook. For a second, he was certain Maglor could tell who he was, that he’d given too much away.  _ But Thingol always hid his son from the world; it was safer not to be known as a prince.  _

“I’m afraid not,” he lied. Then a thought occurred to him. “But, if you’re that interested in formality, you can call me loremaster. It sounds similar enough to lord.”

Maglor laughed and something stirred within Daeron. “Perhaps I will.”

“Will you be playing tonight, Lord Fëanorion?”

“Maglor,” he corrected, “and only if someone asks. I would not want to put those poor beginners to shame for no reason. It wouldn’t be proper.”

It was Daeron’s turn to laugh at the quirk in his brow and the tone of his words. 

Logically, he should’ve been afraid; the Fëanorians were brutal, blood-stained savages; his father said that the gore would never truly be cleaned from underneath their fingertips. Daeron smiled as he remembered that comment: against the chime of the crystal glass, Maglor’s hands were perfectly clean, and beautifully manicured. Was it a Noldorin thing to tip the nails with metal? He couldn’t remember, but Maglor’s were tipped gold. 

In what research he’d done before he chose to travel, he’d learned two things about the physical characteristics of the brothers; Maedhros was handsome, and Celegorm was fair. But Maglor--he seemed to bridge the gap between the two, with long eyelashes, and strong, high cheekbones, and, oh Elbereth, a smile that could kill. A set of golden canines. 

He’d lost one in a fight, and chosen to replace all four with gold so that they’d match. That was the rumour, anyway. 

Maglor leaned over, and murmured into his ear, “but maybe I could play for you.”

Daeron couldn’t help the turn of his smile. “I think I’d like that, my Lord.”

 

\---

 

Maglor led him away out into the night, the damp grass brushing against their ankles as they walked. The air was nice. It was a welcome refreshment compared to the stifling mass of sweat and body heat inside the hall--not that body heat was necessarily something to be looked down upon. 

Maglor poured out his glass onto the grass, then let it slip from his fingers, landing softly in the grass. “I can play any instrument in the world,” he murmured, running a hand up Daeron’s arm, pressing his hands against his cheeks.

“Is that so?” Daeron leaned in, just far enough that he could feel the former prince’s breath, but not so close that their lips were touching. “Would you like me to challenge that?”

Maglor didn’t answer immediately, but he was fairly certain they both knew exactly where their conversation was headed. He had a feeling they’d known from the moment they set eyes on each other; this sort of thing wasn’t like courting for love, where subtlety and delicacy was the imperative. “Go on,” he breathed, pulling Daeron closer (if that was even possible.)

“Me.”

He closed the space between them, leaning in deeply--hungrily to the softness of Maglor’s lips; wanting more with every second. And judging by the way Maglor kissed him back, he felt the same. They stumbled across the green in the quiet, half walking, half falling into each other. 

“Come.” Maglor pulled open the flap to one of the larger Noldorin tents. In between kisses Daeron caught glimpses of various plush furnishings, and a golden harp set up in the centre of the rather generous space. 

They sank down onto the ground, Maglor pushing him back against a bed of velvet-covered pillows, biting his lips as he kissed him. Oh, how nice it would be to relax and forget himself for an hour. To let himself be played. But— “I still need to prove myself to you, too,” he murmured into the Fëanorian’s neck. “It’s only fair.”

Maglor nodded, and Daeron pushed back against him so that they were seated. He pressed a kiss against his lips, ran his tongue along the metal in his mouth. Sharp, but not sharp enough to draw blood. Maglor leant in, winding his hands through Daeron’s hair—carefully, though, with the tenderness of a lover.  _ A lover.  _

“What is this?”

He pulled back for a moment. The look on his face could best be described as ‘slightly annoyed, with a hint of worry,’ but that wasn’t going to stop Daeron asking. Not when it was such a bad idea. Not when so much was at risk. Of course, there was always the chance that he could brave the wrath of his father and try to explain whatever this force was, that drew him so tightly towards someone so untrustworthy, but he had a feeling that conversation would end with him being confined to Menegroth for the rest of eternity and that was a daunting prospect. To never be able to leave. To never be free.

Maglor took a while to process. Then longer to think up an answer, so he was a little disappointed when it was simply the word “fun,” said in such a way that it sounded as if even he was baffled by its presence on his lips. 

“Really?” He reached out again, running a hand along the Fëanorian’s jawline, holding his gaze. Daeron wondered for the hundredth time that evening if he knew. If somehow he could see through the ruse--see him for what he really was. 

_ Prince.  _

_ Heir.  _

Titles that they had both worn, though Maglor’s list held the ever-more impressive  _ regent.  _

But neither of them had ever been king--would ever be king. They had that hang-up in common, he supposed. Perhaps he should add it to the list.

“I don’t know,” Maglor breathed, finally looking away. The honest truth. And maybe that was for the best, but there was a very distinct discomfort in the words  _ I don’t know.  _ Uncertainty. It was not the unknown that they feared, it was the uncertainty. Outwardly similar enough that the two words could be conflated, interchangeable even, but different on some molecular level. 

“We probably won’t meet again,” he tried the rejection on his tongue. Maglor returned to his eyes, watching, reading the unspoken agreement there:  _ this doesn’t mean anything to me.  _ Carefully, slowly, he nodded.

“Probably not.” He reached out and with nimble, musician’s fingers, undid the silver clasp at Daeron’s neck, allowing their skin to brush together. So much gentler than before. Barely there. But in the state that he was, the most erotic thing he had every experienced. “This will probably be the only time I ever see you, in fact,” he continued, undoing the rest of them--slipping the garment off over his shoulders, “so, I might as well take in as much of you as I can.”

Daeron smiled despite himself. He took Maglor’s wrists and leaned in so that his lips were brushing against his neck as he spoke, “and what if there are secrets about my person that I’d rather keep?”

Maglor paused, hesitant, yet hungry.  _ Ravenous.  _ “Are there?”

“None that you’d find--” he brushed the hair away from his face, kissing his jaw, his cheekbone-- “unless if you’d be willing to trade.”

Maglor grinned. That word.  _ Devilish.  _ It was only ever really applied to his younger brother, the hunter, but Daeron could see the merit in broadening its horizons to include a few of the others, too. He pushed away just enough that he could see his partner’s face, and rest his finger and thumb gently against Maglor’s own collar, questioning. 

Maglor reached out and guided his fingers, maintaining eye-contact. Those eyes--they glowed a bright and resplendent ice-blue in the semi-darkness of candle-light, casting a gleam that illuminated the space between them. An answer. Unspoken. 

Their thighs pressed together as they moved in, meeting in the middle, gentle at first, barely brushing their lips in contact. The ghost of a kiss. As if they were still afraid someone might be watching. But what was there to fear? Who would cause any trouble that they couldn’t fix? 

_ Mablung.  _

The answer came readily from Daeron’s subconscious, forcing him to stop, to reevaluate in a weak attempt at sobriety the weight of what he was doing.  _ Mablung reports to Thingol, not you.  _

_ But,  _ he reasoned back,  _ what would Mablung be doing here, unless if he was creating a scandal of his own?  _

He reached out again, pulling Maglor into another kiss. This time there was no hesitation, no caution. He revelled in the sensation, delighted in the pleasure of  _ pleasure.  _ Maybe it was the red wine. Maybe it was the fact that the last time he’d indulged in another person had been before the sun rose for the first time, casting a rosy glow beneath any clouds it encountered. Maybe it was simply the fact that they were alone, and Maglor was attractive. Maybe it was all of those things, or none of them. 

He pressed his palm against Maglor’s chest and pushed him back against the ground. Maglor smiled as he swung around to straddle him. There had been so many times that he had denied himself connection. For his parents’ sake, because it wasn’t appropriate for a man of his station, for any number of reasons, but here--here he wasn’t the Prince of Doriath, son of the King Thingol. Here, he was simply Daeron. Simply a musician. Simply a lord’s one-night-stand. 

And something about that was glorious. 

They moved together in the darkness of a dying candle-flame, staying as quiet as their voices would allow for, tangled into knots.  _ They’re wildfire. They’ll burn you alive.  _ But Maglor was an ocean, a waterfall, moving in waves, tidal surges, with all of the tenderness a lover could ask for. He wondered what it would be like to be loved by him. That was a dangerous desire to have. 

 

\---

 

He didn’t sleep. 

He had never needed sleep; not once in his life. It was probably something inherited from his mother. Another not-entirely-elvish part of his biology. For him, it was more of a comfortable period of vivid imagination from which he could easily be roused at any time.

So instead he stood by himself at the edge of the space, peering out into the night, staring down Elbereth’s stars. 

His mother had told him stories about her when he was little as she wove snowdrops into his hair, and summoned shimmering particles of dust from mid-air to decorate his cheeks, still soft with youth. In the darkness, he waved his hand and summoned them again to flitter about his fingers, casting their glow into the air around them. They weren’t stars, though they were similar enough for the demonstration Melian liked to give. No, they were concentrated particles of magic--the kind that he was told had filled the empty space in the gardens of Lorien; in Este’s beloved place of healing.

Maglor stirred in his sleep, and Daeron extinguished the sparkles. They were just a party trick anyway. Something to look pretty and change nothing. 

There was so much more that he could do. With a quick check to ensure that his lover was still sleeping, he turned back to the open air and turned his palms up to face the sky. Eyes shut, he felt for the world around him, waiting for it to make itself known. The more calm he became, the more clearly he could hear the song; the more closely he could  _ feel  _ it. Vibrations of sound in the air, lapping against his fingertips like the waves of a pond, disturbed as a bird beat its wings to flit away. 

And he reached in. 

The stream changed around his touch, remolding itself to fit into place. When he opened his eyes again, his wrists were cuffed in bands of pure gold, the smell of ozone piercing the air around them. He sighed, then, with a twist of the hands, sent them back into song. 

Maybe he would sleep, or maybe he would leave. Slip outside and turn himself into a nightingale--flutter away on the evening breeze until he was back home, peck at his sister’s window until she let him in. 

Instead he lay down and pretended to sleep.

 

\---

 

He woke up long before anyone disturbed them, as the sunlight filtered in through a gap in the tent, casting its honey-golden glow across the carpets. He lay there for a moment, reaching out a hand to touch it, feeling the warmth seep into his fingertips. The sun in Doriath was never like that, never had that warmth to it when it hit his skin. 

Would it make a difference if he slipped out then, rather than earlier in the night when the idea had first come to him? Probably not, but it seemed more honest, somehow. 

For a moment, he let himself rest there, able to breathe deeply and easily, ignoring all of his worries. 

He heard footsteps outside. Quickly, he reached into the music, and tugged at his own form. 

A stern-looking woman pulled the flap open, letting the light pour in over Maglor’s face. He stirred, flinching under its intensity.

“Sir, your brother’s asking after you.”

Maglor groaned. “What the hell does he want?”

“To know why you left so early.”

“Can’t you s—” He stopped mid-sentence, realising he was gesturing to an empty space. Daeron peered down from over the beam on which he was perched, watching, waiting. It had been a good decision not to leave--at least not the second time it occurred to him. That would’ve been disastrous. 

The woman stepped into the tent, offering him her full disdain. She was the kind of woman you’d call ‘handsome’ before anything else; with strong shoulders and a strong jaw, nose pierced with a single silver ring. “I can’t see, sir.” Her eyes drifted upwards, meeting Daeron’s. “Unless if you’re telling me you spent all night getting distracted by a bird.”

Maglor followed her gaze. “How did that—”

She shrugged. “Either way, your brother wants you, and since he outranks you, I’m under obligation to bring you to him.”

“You have no sense of loyalty, Canaethor.”

She reached out and pulled back the tent-flap, holding it open for him. With a stretch, he slipped through, still joking with her. Daeron counted to five, about to drop back down into elven form when Maglor pulled back the flap again and whistled. 

“C’mon, you don’t want to get stuck in there, little one.” 

Daeron flew forward, taking a second to land on Maglor’s hand and bow his head in thanks. As he looked up, their eyes met. The Feanorian frowned. 

“I’d pay to know how you got in there in the first place, though,” he murmured. 

Daeron twittered some nonsense in response. Maglor smiled. 

“Curious little thing.”

He alighted, and flew a few circuits around the layout of the camp, searching for the his mother’s emblem. It didn’t take long to find it--the copper nightingale that adorned the tent-post was a beacon in the rising sunlight. He darted through the entrance and perched himself on Mablung’s shoulder, pecking at his ear when he jumped.

“Your Highness, I’d appreciate if you made yourself elven again.”

Daeron hopped off of his shoulder and transformed back, brushing himself off. “Does it really bother you that much?”

“It’s strange.”

“And this isn’t?” He gestured to the carefully-curated body that he’d chosen to wear to that particular event. He’d gone for attractive, but dull--unassuming. It had seemed like the wisest option to avoid standing out. Though, in truth, he was becoming attached to that form. 

“It’s the animal forms that are disconcerting.”

“Are we not animals?”

Mablung rolled his eyes. “Where were you?”

“Exploring.” Not entirely a lie. Not entirely. “Besides, I’m here now.”

“Do you know how much trouble I’d have been in if you’d gotten yourself hurt?”

Daeron waved him off. “I’m fairly certain I can handle myself. What with my ‘animal’ forms.”

Mablung raised his eyebrows, but they were interrupted before he could think up a witty response--a summons. So many of those in one morning. They followed the young Noldorin woman outside, to a gathering of people. The high king Fingolfin was making some sort of speech about unity in times of need, flanked by his family. Maglor stood proud and calm next to him, the image of respect and good behaviour. He slipped away as soon as the speech was done.

It took Mablung nudging him in the arm and asking him what he thought for him to realise that he hadn’t heard a single word. Something else caught his attention.

The first echoes of a few notes, ringing out in the distance among the birdsong. Daeron had a feeling that he knew exactly where to go to find the source. 

If Mablung called after him, he missed it entirely.

 

—-

 

Maglor played beautifully.

Beautiful while he played, music beautiful. Either statement was true. 

The tune was gentle. Sweet and cheerful, filling the tent with its notes like the fullness of a fresh harvest filling a basket. The kind of melody that would lure you barefoot into a stream to let the cool water lap at your feet on a hot day as the sun warmed your skin. But sad. Strangely so. A minor key every few notes, for just the hint--the allusion to tragedy. It was a bittersweet song that needed no lyrics to tell its story. 

Daeron waited patiently for him to finish before speaking up.

“Maybe I should’ve asked you to play an actual instrument.”

Maglor started, looking up at him, eyes wide. “How did you leave so quickly in the morning.”

“I didn’t. Time blends together when you sleep.” It was a guess, but judging by the look on Maglor’s face, he’d been correct. “That was amazing.”

He looked back to the harp in front of him, running a hand along its top. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was the greatest musician to ever live, save for you, perhaps, should you have care to prove yourself.”

“Some other time,” Daeron said, turning away. He watched as the tents were collapsed, the people were dressed again in their travelling cloaks, a sea of blue and black and red, and grey. “I can’t stay here any longer.” 

“Is that a promise?”

He looked back. Some gap in the roof of the tent allowed the sunlight to spill in, casting his visage in gold and bronze. An image of Arien on earth. 

“May Melian witness my oath.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment if you liked it!! notes are dumb and i have a headachey migraine thingy have mercy


End file.
